


What Lies Beneath

by rallamajoop



Series: Demoniality [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bottom Derek, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Derek, Succubi & Incubi, soulbonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 05:11:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2096991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rallamajoop/pseuds/rallamajoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has questions. Derek has other ideas.</p><p>(Side-story from a longer work, but can probably be read as a bit of standalone smut from a slightly bizarre AU, if you'd rather take it that way.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Lies Beneath

**Author's Note:**

> **For** _ **Dangerous Things**_ **readers:** This was originally posted between chapters 9 and 10, though presumably takes place sometime around early chapter 5, chronologically speaking. Best read more or less whenever you start to feel like it's been a little long since the last proper sex scene.
> 
>  **For any other readers stumbling upon it:** So, this is set in a medieval AU where Derek is an incubus rather than a werewolf, and where Stiles is a servant working for Lydia's family. The few reference sources Stiles has on the subject of demonology have mislead him terribly in the past, and his (mostly futile) attempts to get better information out of Derek are a minor ongoing plot point. If you basically assume that the two of them share a mildly antagonistic relationship where Derek climbs in through Stiles' window for sex on a regular basis, you'll probably be good.
> 
>  **To everyone:** Please excuse the terrible pun that is the title.

Approached from above, the grey-brick monolith of the tower stands stark against the sky, its foundations blending with the bare stone of the hillside so as to blur where natural ends and man-made begins. Like most human dwellings, it was never built to be seen from the air; while the outer wall would tower over the head of a man who set foot here, from the sky the courtyard and stables within lie unobscured and undefended, while the wall itself could almost be missed altogether. The northern face is the only side to boast windows of appreciable size, where the wall plummets to meet foundations which rest upon ten feet of sheer cliff, the hillside below steep and rocky. The risk of attack from that angle must seem slim indeed, to human sensibilities. Neglect has done for their defences what overconfidence alone could not achieve; where time has chipped away at the clean lines of the battlements, there is scant evidence of repair. There's little sign of recent inhabitation at all until you get closer still, at least in daylight hours. By night, the firelight through the window slits carries somewhat further into the dark. In a territory that stretches from the southern mountains to the sea, this place has had little impact to boast of in Derek's mental landscape – at least until very recently. He understands it theoretically as the pinnacle of the Martins' domain – recent hardships notwithstanding – though even now that it has his attention, the lords and owners are far from his concerns.

Awareness of Stiles follows him almost everywhere nowadays, finding him whenever his mind wanders – intrusive at the wrong moments, but so much background noise by and large. He wouldn't call it comforting exactly, but at times like this, when he's come to seek it out, that warm sense of Stiles (there, sitting with his books on the edge of his bed, with the end of a quill in his mouth), growing in immediacy with every mile he glides – feeds the very best kind of anticipation inside him. _Wanting_ is, after all, always half the fun.

The beating of a single heart greets him as he alights at the window and slips inside. By the light of a candle Stiles is hard at work, two books open on the table before him and another in his hands. He makes no sign of awareness of Derek's presence, or anything else beyond his little sphere of focus. Not much in the mood to surprise anyone tonight, Derek lets his footsteps fall more heavily than he might.

Stiles' head swivels toward the sound, distracted more than startled. At the sight of Derek, his face lights up. "Derek – hey, good timing! See, I had a question..." Dropping his book, Stiles reaches instead for another.

Derek waits patiently for Stiles to realise on his own that this is not much of a greeting for one's demon lover. It's been a while since Stiles ceased to find him intimidating, and this, apparently, is what results. In what may be a personal first, Derek catches himself considering, from a philosophical standpoint, the experience of being taken for granted. Presumably, this is why so many human relationships don't last beyond the honeymoon period.

"If this isn't the kind of question that ends in an invitation to ravish you, you may be disappointed," he warns.

Stiles flicks a passing look at him between one book and another. "Question first, ravishing later. Okay... so! I was looking up the Latin roots – 'incubus', that's from the Latin for 'to lie upon' – not all that ambiguous what they're getting at there," Stiles is saying, his new book apparently some sort of Latin dictionary.

Etymology, seriously _?_ Clearly Derek has been short-sighted in imagining that the day Stiles ran out of real reference material worth plumbing for the least implied sliver of meaning would be something to look forward to.

"Whereas 'succubus' – that's 'to lie beneath' – okay, fair enough," Stiles prattles on, apparently oblivious to the fact that Derek finds the sight of him licking his fingers as he thumbs through the pages far more interesting than anything he has to say, "but everything I've got on _actual_ succubi implies _pre-tty_ heavily that if you meet one, she's not gonna be the type to lie back and let you take the reins. Like, there's this whole spiel here – wait, not here, I don't have that book, but trust me – the _lengths_ this guy went into about 'the sin of Lilith' as taking the dominant role in sex – not that subtle either, and you don't get more archetypically demonic than _Lilith_. And then there's this other story – referenced in my bestiary and everything – where there was this monk who... 'awoke with a gasp, to a great pressure upon his chest, and when he opened his eyes-'..."

"That's a mara, not a succubus," says Derek. Stiles is looking in completely the wrong direction to notice Derek rolling his eyes. Derek does it anyway.

"A what?"

"A different kind of demon. They feed on fear, not arousal." Derek settles himself up against the pillow on Stiles' bed, leans back, and hopes, perhaps vainly, Stiles will take the hint. He nods toward the dictionary. " _Ephialtae_ , if you're looking for it in there."

"Are you sure?" Stiles is reaching for his dictionary even as he speaks, waving with his free hand at another book as though its mere proximity will prove his point. "Because, you read this thing, he doesn't make it _sound_ like fear was the overwhelming theme of the experience. And I cross-referenced it with Kramer, and oh boy, _there's_ one source that reallymakes the on-top-or-not issue out like a big deal, especially when he starts in on incubi and..."

While there's an undeniable appeal to watching Stiles like this, engaged and in motion, Derek has officially had as much of being treated as a reference source as he intends to take for one night. "You know, Stiles, if you wanted to be on top, you could just _ask_."

Stiles' monologue trails to an awkward halt, attention diverted almost before the rest of him can catch up. "What do you mean?" he asks, genuinely confused. "I've been on top before."

"Not the way _I_ mean," says Derek, and drops a knee so as to let his legs fall open meaningfully. He watches comprehension spread across Stiles' face with some satisfaction.

"Are you... saying this just to get me off the subject?" Stiles asks, a little weakly.

"Obviously," says Derek, quite serious, "but also because I'd really like you to fuck me."

It's _all_ worth it – the inescapable awareness of a foreign human mind, that would let Stiles summon him like a common imp with no more than a thought – not just for the anticipation, but for the chance to experience the very moment when exactly what Derek's offering sinks in. The way the idea takes root, catches light, and bursts within moments from _forget it, never gonna be an option_ in Stiles' estimation into everything he never knew how badly he wanted to try. 

Stiles swallows thickly. "Now?" he asks, though already he's begun to crawl up the bed on his hands and knees.

"Did you have other plans?" asks Derek, shifting to accommodate him.

"Well, I _was_ going to see how many questions I could get you to answer before you gave up and tore my clothes off," says Stiles, the incorrigible smart-alec, "But _this –_ officially not what I was angling for. You never _said_..."

"Remiss of me," agrees Derek, allowing himself a smirk, that thread of anticipation tightening with every inch Stiles closes between them. "Past time we did something about that."

"So... uh." Stiles' progress up the bed gets him as far as one hand over Derek's thigh before he hesitates, rethinking his approach. "How do I... y'know, do this?"

Derek raises his eyebrows. "How? Would've thought by now you'd have the idea. Haven't you been paying attention?"

"To how _good_ it feels, sure," Stiles snorts. "No-one told me there was gonna be a test later." He looks down and up again, suddenly jittery, eyes skating over the view provided by the spread of Derek's legs with a furtiveness Derek recognises from the earlier days of their relationship. "I could, uh, really go for some foreplay here."

"Foreplay," echoes Derek, skeptical, and reaches for the developing bulge in Stiles' pants.

"Ohh boy," Stiles groans as Derek makes a show of feeling out the shape of his growing erection. "We're going straaaight in there. Okay."

"You feel ready to me," Derek observes. Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Derek, c'mon. Give me something to work with here," he begs, and Derek, finally, takes a measure of pity on him.

Quirking an eyebrow, he wraps his fingers around Stiles' other hand, hanging limply between them as if unsure what to do with itself. Stiles offers no resistance as he brings it to his mouth and runs his tongue over the pad of each finger in turn, oh-so-subtly drawing Stiles closer as he does. Stiles edges forward unthinkingly, his other hand sliding up the bed for balance, until Derek has him resting half against his thigh, half across his chest; no more than inches away from a dozen angles and balanced on a breath.

"You want instructions, Stiles?" he whispers. "You take this," he guides Stiles' hand down between their bodies, presses in and lets Stiles' feel the shape of himself, straining through the fabric of his pants, "and you put it..." Pulling Stiles' hand back towards him, he presses down above the second knuckle to straighten Stiles' fingers, lifting his own hips for access, "In here."

" _Oh_ my god." Stiles chokes slightly as his fingers push into Derek, and breaks eye contact in favour of staring at what Derek's doing with his fingers. "Is it meant to feel like... I mean, when I tried this on me, I... uh..." He breaks off, blushing furiously.

"For humans, no, not necessarily," Derek tells him. "But we're a little better built for this than you are." Which understates the matter considerably, when Derek can, with little more effort, enthral a mind, induce a human body to relax and melt beneath his fingers or stoke mere whispers of arousal to fever pitch. Maybe he'll tell Stiles all of that someday, if the mood seems right.

"Well, yeah. You're kind of a hard act to follow," Stiles grouches, good naturedly, now twisting his fingers experimentally without further prompting. "You give a guy a lot to live up to. Does that – does that feel good?" Truthfully, he's not in deep enough for Derek to feel very much, but that's largely beside the point of the exercise. He'll let Stiles experiment with his fingers to his heart's content some other time; for now, Derek needs him not to overthink this. "Not as good as it's going to feel."

"Sheesh, Mr Impatient. Just lemme..." Stiles makes a token attempt at getting his pants down one-handed, but nerves have done an embarrassing number on his coordination. He gives in and tugs his other hand out of Derek's grasp – and out of Derek – though he winds up applying its help three-fingered, the two which had been inside sticking awkwardly up in the air. He's gone pink-faced and flustered when he looks up again. "Okay."

Derek lies back as Stiles slides into his space, puzzling momentarily over the alignment of their hips before giving in and clambering back onto Derek, bringing his cock to nestle in the crease of Derek's hip, his own leaving a trail of pre-come wherever it touches. "Wait, can I just..." he murmurs, and reaches for Derek's neck.

Stiles kisses him, brief but deep, with an eager tongue and a hand on the back of his neck that stops shaking when he buries it in Derek's hair. Derek closes his eyes, wraps his fingers around Stiles' hip and enjoys it, as Stiles settles himself with the easy intimacy. He pulls back, bright-eyed, perhaps a little more sure of himself.

"Okay," he says again, in a rush of breath, and sits back on his knees. Flicks an uncertain look up at Derek, leans a hand on Derek's inner thigh, and wraps the other around the base of his own cock. For several seconds the logistics of lining himself up appear to consume his entire concentration.

Derek relaxes back and waits. Stiles' emotional state remains a heady buzz wrapped around the edges of his consciousness, stronger for proximity, stronger still for the hand against his thigh. Not much enhanced by the light nudge of Stiles' cock against the curve of his arse, as Stiles tackles this problem with a gravity he usually reserves for experimentation in dark magic, but all that will change. Stiles has his tongue between his teeth, easing forward with agonising slowness as he finally finds Derek's entrance and begins to push himself inside. The pace leaves Derek acutely aware of every fraction of an inch of progress, sensation echoing back from Stiles to compliment his own.

"Oh _gosh_ ," Stiles mutters, then blushes furiously over his choice of expletive in a manner Derek finds positively endearing.

"Keep going," Derek tells him, without a hint of mockery. He watches Stiles blink down at him, a little incredulous, then finally take the invitation to _thrust_. The motion is abortive, with no real force behind it, but succeeds in driving nearly his whole length inside, with a long moan to all but cover Derek's answering sigh. _This_ is more like it.

" _Whoa_ ," Stiles breathes, and looks up at Derek with drunken eyes. "That feels..."

Derek can feel how it feels, and doesn't particularly feel the need to hear about it as well. He clenches his muscles around Stiles' cock and the explanation turns into another moan at significantly higher pitch.

" _Oh my god_ ," says Stiles. "Do that again."

Derek does. The blissed-out look on Stiles' face is thoroughly rewarding – enough that Derek does it once more, just to see it again – but he hasn't spread his legs for Stiles with the intention of doing all the work himself tonight.

"Try moving," he suggests.

"Yeah," pants Stiles. "Right. Getting there." Again, he adjusts his hands, seeking leverage. He draws himself back out with his tongue between his teeth. Works his hips and thrusts once more. " _Ohh_..."

Derek leans back and luxuriates in second-hand sensation. "That's the idea."

"Okay, I think I'm," says Stiles, a little breathlessly, "starting to get the appeal." He thrusts again, pauses, adjusts his weight once more, and tries again, a little more confidently.

"You imagined I spent all that time fucking you purely for your benefit?" asks Derek, because needling Stiles is a hard habit to break.

" _No_ ," Stiles scoffs. He's starting to move now without thinking about it quite so hard, though the motion interrupts his speech on every other word. "But I wasn't... not exactly thinking, 'well _this is getting old_ already' either." The thought of making _Derek_ feel like that flashes through Stiles mind, surprising him before smoothing into a spike of heat.

Derek wraps his legs around Stiles' hips and smiles at him indulgently. Actually, Stiles' angle isn't the best, and his rhythm has hardly been a rhythm for more than four strokes together, but Derek isn't greatly bothered. He's been inside Stiles enough to know him through and through, felt the boy's bliss compliment his own, but this is the first and only time _Stiles_ has done this – with him, with anyone – and Derek doesn't intend to miss a moment.

 _Next_ time – and there'll be a next time; Derek has long since given up promising himself otherwise – he'll teach Stiles how to make this equally consuming for both of them; how to find that place inside him that will pin him to his own body with more pleasure than he can bear, send his focus haywire, suspended in bursts between one mind and another. Show him how this would feel with Stiles on his back while Derek kneels above him, taking Stiles' cock inside him over and over with every flex of his thighs.

For now, he's more than content to relax and feel, letting Stiles' wonder make the act new again. Mixed in the wash of pleasure and sensation come fragments of thought, tumbling against each other as his focus blurs in and out. To Stiles, this feels amazing – huge and scary and _different_ , like every excuse he ever tried to make about being coerced into what he does with Derek just evaporated into smoke. He's never taken the idea a man could go to hell for letting something like Derek fuck him very seriously, but if there's any truth to it, what in all of heaven and earth would be the punishment have to be for letting himself be goaded into _this_?

Derek feels Stiles wonder if it means something that Derek's letting him do this – if this is something he wouldn't do for just anyone, before mentally slapping himself down for getting sentimental. Derek's made it obvious all along he's not into ravishing unwilling virgins while they shriek and beat at his chest – and, Jesus, how had he ever believed for a second that Derek wouldn't be into this? It's him all over, that's his _admit you want this or I walk_ schtick through and through. Derek catches Stiles realising, in a truly unexpected rush of clarity, that Derek would have let him do this all along – lost in there somewhere is the beginning of a revelation, but it's gone again in the rush. This is _nuts_ , thinks Stiles, breathless and eager, but everything about Derek is nuts, and if that's not more than half the fascination he's wrestled with since the first time they laid eyes on each other, that's only because the sex _seriously_ is that good.

Stiles' perspective is charming in its innocence, when Derek could so easily tell Stiles just how many men spend their lives _dreaming_ of what he can offer them. Explain how it's the easiest thing in all the world to catch an eye, to twist the attention earned by a pretty stranger glimpsed in the half-light of a tavern late at night – to enthral them with the possibility by little more than a look, and lead them away to somewhere dark and private. The world, as Derek knows it, _teems_ with men who married young, who found some satisfaction in the arms of their wives (or little, or none at all), but never did stop wanting something else. Men with children of their own, sometimes, and still virgin enough in some sense for Derek's purposes – and even where some might pause before allowing another man to sodomise them on their own homes, those who'd turn a willing stranger against the wall and fuck him long and hard are rarely in short supply. After all, the willing are _always_ easier, always preferable to those who'd need coercion, and common enough that Derek can often afford to be particular about whom he chooses to indulge.

For Stiles, whose only sources are awash in ill-founded anxieties about how evil works its will on the unassuming, the idea a rational man would ever desire this is unthinkable. But then, Stiles' books were written by repressed church scholars, whose experience of demons derives almost entirely from the works of earlier repressed church scholars; who comprehend _dominance_ far more easily than they do _seduction_ , and are fool enough to imagine the remainder of the world must follow suit. Stiles has no idea at all.

But Stiles is also young, and more jealous of Derek's attentions than he'd readily admit. He won't enjoy the reference to Derek's conquests past, or the reminder that he himself is only one of so many. So Derek lets the lesson die on his tongue, and saves himself from having to ponder the dishonesty of suggesting, however obliquely, that what he does with Stiles is like anything he's ever done with anyone before.

Here and now, Stiles shakes himself and turns his eyes downwards, expression flushed and guilty. "Jesus, if you want me to last, looking at me like that isn't going to help," he breathes.

Back in the physical, Derek tilts his head and allows himself a long, slow smile. "Looking at you like what, Stiles?"

He can feel Stiles' flush deepening without looking. Though Stiles doesn't reply, behind Derek's eyes the image of himself looking at Stiles flickers into being. Through Stiles' eyes, Derek looks at once possessive and infatuated, his gaze dark with promise.

"Tell me, Stiles, just what was it that made you think I wouldn't want this?" Derek whispers. "You think this is about _power_? That power is who takes and who's taken?"

He watches Stiles pant, then look up at him, uncomprehending. Derek smiles at him and curls his body upwards, tightening the space between their bodies. Runs a finger over the curve of Stiles' shoulder blade, dragging up into the short, dark hair at the back of his neck. "What's it like for you when I do what you're doing now?"

"Oh my god, you want me to answer that _now_?" breathes Stiles, and makes no attempt to elaborate. In his head, however, several attempts form and flutter through his mind before being rejected as dismally inadequate. _Like you're reaching into all the most secret parts of my body and you're playing me like a harp from both ends at once? Like I don't know where you end and I begin anymore? Like finding out there's a virtual stranger who knows my own body a thousand times better than I do?_

"That's right," Derek murmurs. "Don't imagine, Stiles, there's anything you could want from me that I wouldn't do for you."

Stiles gasps, and gasps again, and comes inside Derek in a sudden rush of warmth, his face open and beautifully stunned. Derek lets his eyes drift closed, forgets the distraction of his own body and enjoys it, for a while, as Stiles does. Given the means, he'd have framed and kept this moment without a second thought.

Inasmuch as his muscles will allow, his softening cock still buried deep inside Derek, Stiles collapses into him. Derek strokes the back of his neck contentedly. It takes some time for it to register with Stiles, who's still working on the idea that orgasms aren't necessarily meant to be simultaneous, that Derek's own erection is still digging into his hip.

"Oh," he says, then, quickly, "Sorry, should I have been...?" and brushes his fingers against Derek's cock experimentally.

Derek gives him a liquid shrug, "Plenty of time for that. Now is good."

Stiles closes his hand over Derek's length and strokes upwards, the movement slow. "I'm gonna take that as a 'no', but... I do wanna know if I'm doing something wrong, okay?"

"If you do, I will," Derek assures him and wraps a hand over Stiles', encouraging him to pick up the pace. Someday, maybe he'll share just exactly what this was like, from his side. Someday when time enough has passed for Stiles to have begun to forget, for himself, what it was like when this was new. "But if you're feeling the need to make it up to me, please, be my guest."

Stiles huffs at him, but seems to get the idea. That's another conversation for another day – for now, he has Stiles' come cooling in his body, Stiles' cock softening inside him, and Stiles' hand on his own to savour. Derek licks into Stiles' mouth and kisses him long and deep before pulling away, as their laced fingers work his cock in steady strokes. He comes looking into Stiles' eyes, heedless of the danger.

Stiles pulls himself out of Derek properly after, and collapses on his chest in a glorious, sticky mess than neither of them are much inclined to mind. Derek idly traces the edge of Stiles' hip and lets himself drift for a while. He can afford that much.

"Feeling properly damned yet?" he asks, after a bit.

"Ohh yeah," Stiles murmurs, happily. " _So_ worth it." Lifting his head, he adds, emphatically. "We – we are definitely doing that more often."

Derek strokes the back of Stiles' neck and chuckles in contentment.


End file.
